The Lesson
by Anansay
Summary: Sara decides to teach Grissom a lesson.


The Lesson

by Anansay

June 25, 2003

He lay on his couch, one arm flung over his face, hiding his eyes. He willed his body to relax, to let the blood flow freely. What a night! He sighed. He really didn't know how much longer he could handle working with Sara without something happening. And yet, he was truly without a clue as to how to proceed, and then whether or not he truly wanted to go down that route. It was a puzzle he did not relish unraveling any time soon: what to do about this situation between Sara and himself. 

There was a knock on his door. He sighed again and glanced at his watch, 11:13 in the morning. Blasted salesmen, he muttered. 

He yanked open the door and stopped. Sara was standing on the other side, her face set in a solid expression of determination with a mite of fear mixed in for good measure. He stared at her for a long moment, his mind going over possible reasons for her presence at his door at this time. "Is it a case?" he said eventually. 

"No, it's not a case." Her voice was solid yet quiet. And he began to wonder again "Can I come in?"

"Why?"

She blinked. 

He cursed himself for his inimical manner. "Uh, sure. Come in," he said, stepping back and allowing her entrance. 

Staring at him, she walked by him and into his sanctuary. The blinds were drawn and the lights were off. It was dark and cozy in his condo, and he suddenly felt as though he'd let in something rather dangerous. He watched her stroll in and spin on her heels, waiting for him to join her in _his _living room. 

He went to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and then turned on the light. He squinted. There had to be light in here with her there. There was no way he was going to be around her in this dimness. He turned to her, catching her profile as she glanced around his abode. He chugged some water and joined her in the living room, standing a few feet from her. 

She turned to him. 

"What's up, Sara?"

She stared at him as though weighing her next words, her eyes searching his face. 

"Sara?"  
"I want to show you something," she finally said. 

"What?"

"Well it's something pretty special."

He cocked his head to one side, not really liking her tone of voice. It was too tempting. "What is it?" he asked in his trademark monotone. 

She sighed, as though having come to some decision with which she wasn't totally comfortable. "I want to show you what you can do about something that's been bothering you."

His eyebrows knitted together, a picture forming in his mind of her possible meaning. He took a step back, suddenly not really wanting to be near her. "I don't know what you're talking about" he tried to say. 

"_You_ don't know what to do about this but _I_ do." And with those words, she lunged toward him like a cougar suddenly pouncing on its prey. Her hands were on his face and her lips on his before his brain could muster some coherent response to her sudden movement. 

His shock lasted only a moment before it was replaced by another shock: that of realizing his arms were around her body and he was responding in kind to her assault on his mouth. If Alice had been a boy, his name might have been Grissom, for indeed that was exactly how he felt at that moment: like someone had picked him up and dropped him head first down an endless tunnel that began with her lips and ended with who knew? 

Against some residual nagging voice in his head, his mouth opened and his tongue sought hers out to mingle and mate with. It wasn't a conscious decision by far, but one in which the decision did not rest with his mind. For once, he was going on instinct, his mind having given up its attempt at any sane reasoning. Her sweetness, like nectar, was intoxicating and dulling to the senses. He was wavering on the brink of absolute surrender. The material covering their bodies, though acting as a closed gate to their eventual and absolute consummation of their libidinous desires also acted in such a fashion as to hold him back. Had their bodies been in contact more than their lips, he knew there would be no turning back. 

As it were, her hands were traveling beneath his shirt, her nails trailing along his sensitive skin, eliciting gasping moans as he nuzzled the tender flesh of her neck. Yes, he was quickly teetering on the edge. If nothing happened soon to hold him, he was going to fall. Tumbling head over heels, desperately grasping for anything to keep him from hurtling toward his own demise, by his own hand. 

His hands however, decided on a different course and began traveling over her body of their own accord. His need of forever to feel her - just touch her here and there - was swiftly becoming primal and unconstrained as he sought out every hill and valley of her body taut with prurient repression. 

She leaned into him, enveloping his body with her own as she backed him up against the wall, pushing into him as he pulled her against him. His arousal pressed into her core as she wrapped a leg around his thigh, the heat of her core singing through the material to burn them both. He groaned into her mouth, a willing captive of her volatile ministrations. 

There was no turning back, not ever. They could never return to their former ways of interaction. Not after this personal perusal of each other's bodies. 

With a jarring tug of his heart, he pulled away from her, his eyes remained closed as he savoured the aftertaste of their entanglement, his arms still wrapped around her against the flesh beneath her shirt. She rested against his chest, her face nuzzled into his neck, as his head rested on her shoulder. Their breaths came in raspy pants, their hearts pounded, a plainly felt testimony of their reaction to each other. No, no going back, never. 

In a breathless whisper Sara said, "That's what you do with 'this'."

"Yeah," he responded in kind. "I kinda figured it was something like that."


End file.
